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Half in the salver's tinkle drown'd,
While the chasse-café glides around!
And such may hither secret stray,

To labour an extempore:

Our sportsman, with his boisterous hollo,
May here his wiser spaniel follow,
Or stage-struck Juliet may presume
To chuse this bower for tiring-room;
And we alike must shun regard,
From painter, player, sportsman,
Insects that skim in Fashion's sky,
Wasp, blue-bottle, or butterfly,
Lucy, have all alarms for us,

For all can hum and all can buzz.

III.

But oh, my Lucy, say how long

bard.

We still must dread this trifling throng, And stoop to hide, with coward art, The genuine feelings of the heart! No parents thine, whose just command Should rule their child's obedient hand; Thy guardians, with contending voice, Press each his individual choice. And which is Lucy's!--Can it be That puny fop, trimm'd cap-a-pie. Who loves in the saloon to show The arms that never knew a foe; Whose sabre trails along the ground, Whose legs in shapeless boots are drown'd; A new Achilles, sure,-the steel Fled from his breast to fence his heel; One, for the simple manly grace That wont to deck our martial race, Who comes in foreign trashery

Of tinkling chain and spur,
A walking haberdashery,

Of feathers, lace, and fur:
In Rowley's antiquated phrase
Horse-milliner' of modern days.
IV.

Or is it he, the wordy youth,

So early train'd for statesman's part,
Who talks of honour, faith and truth,

As themes that he has got by heart;
Whose ethics Chesterfield can teach,
Whose logic is from Single-speech;
Who scorns the meanest thought to vent,
Save in the phrase of Parliament;
Who, in a tale of cat and mouse,
Calls « order,» and « divides the house,»
Who « craves permission to reply,»
Whose noble friend is in his
eye;»
Whose loving tender some have reckon'd
A motion, you should gladly second?

V.

What, neither? Can there be a third,
To such resistless swains preferr'd?—
O why, my Lucy, turn aside,

With that quick glance of injured pride?

1 The trammels of the palfraye pleased his sight, And the borse-millanere his head with roses dight.. ROWLEY'S Ballads of Charitie.

Forgive me, love, I cannot bear That alter'd and resentful air. Were all the wealth of Russell mine, And all the rank of Howard's line, All would I give for leave to dry That dew-drop trembling in thine eye, Think not I fear such fops can wile From Lucy more than careless smile; But yet if wealth and high, degree Give gilded counters currency, Must I not fear, when rank and birth Stamp the pure ore of genuine worth? Nobles there are, whose martial fires Rival the fame that raised their sires, And patriots, skill'd through storms of fate To guide and guard the reeling state. Such, such there are-if such should come, Arthur must tremble and be dumb, Self-exiled scek some distant shore, And mourn till life and grief arc o'er.

VI.

What sight, what signal of alarm,
That Lucy clings to Arthur's arm!
Or is it, that the rugged way
Makes Beauty lean on lover's stay?
Oh, no! for on the vale and brake
Nor sight nor sounds of danger wake,
And this trim sward of velvet green
Were carpet for the fairy queen.
That pressure slight was but to tell
That Lucy loves her Arthur well,
And fain would banish from his mind
Suspicious fear and doubt unkind.

VII.

But wouldst thou bid the demons fly
Like mist before the dawning sky,
There is but one resistless spell-
Say, wilt thou guess, or must I tell?
'T were hard to name in minstrel phrase,
A landaulet and four blood-bays,
But bards agree this wizard band
Can but be bound in Northern Land.

'Tis there-nay, draw not back thy hand!-
'Tis there this slender finger round
Must golden amulet be bound,
Which, bless'd with many a holy prayer,
Can change to rapture lover's care,
And doubt and jealousy shall die,
And fears give place to ecstacy.

VIII.

Now, trust me, Lucy, all too long
Has been thy lover's tale and song.
O why so silent, love, I pray?
Have I not spoke the livelong day?
And will not Lucy deign to say
One word her friend to bless?
I ask but one-a simple sound,
Within three little letters bound,
O let the word be YES!

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO III.

I.

bear

LONG loved, long woo'd, and lately won,
My life's best hope, and now mine own!
Doth not this rude and Alpine glen
Recal our favourite haunts agen?
A wild resemblance we can trace,
Though reft of every softer grace,
As the rough warrior's brow may
A likeness to a sister fair.
Full well advised our Highland host,
That this wild pass on foot be cross'd,
While round Ben-Cruach's mighty base
Wheel the slow steeds and lingering chaise.
The keen old carle, with Scottish pride,
He praised his glen and mountains wide;
eye he bears for nature's face,

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Ay, and for woman's lovely grace.
Even in such mean degree we find
The subtle Scot's observing mind;
For, not the chariot nor the train
Could gape of vulgar wonder gain,
But when old Allan would expound
Of Beal-na-paish the Celtic sound,
His bonnet doff'd, and bow, applied
His legend to my bonny bride;
While Lucy blush'd beneath his eye,
Courteous and cautious, shrewd and sly.

II.

Enough of him.-Now, ere we lose,
Plunged in the vale, the distant views,
Turn thee, my love! look back once more
To the blue lake's retiring shore.

On its smooth breast the shadows seem
Like objects in a morning dream,
What time the slumberer is aware
He sleeps, and all the vision 's air:
Even so, on yonder liquid lawn,
In hues of bright reflection drawn,
Distinct the shaggy mountains lie,
Distinct the rocks, distinct the sky;
The summer clouds so plain we note,
That we might count each dappled spot:
We
gaze and we admire, yet know
The scene is all delusive show.

Such dreams of bliss would Arthur draw,
When first his Lucy's form he saw;
Yet sigh'd and sicken'd as he drew,
Despairing they could e'er prove true!

III.

But, Lucy, turn thee now, to view
Up the fair glen our destined way!
The fairy path that we pursue,
Distinguish'd but by greener hue,
Winds round the purple brae,
While Alpine flowers of varied dye
For carpet serve or tapestry.

'Beal-na-paish, the Vale of the Bridal.

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See how the little runnels leap,
In threads of silver, down the steep,
To swell the brooklet's moan!
Seems that the Highland Naiad grieves,
Fantastic while her crown she weaves,
Of rowan, birch, and alder-leaves,
So lovely, and so lone.

There's no illusion there, these flowers,
That wailing brook, these lovely bowers,
Are, Lucy, all our own;

And, since thine Arthur call'd thee wife,
Such seems the prospect of his life,
A lovely path, on-winding still,
By gurgling brook and sloping hill.
'Tis true that mortals cannot tell
What waits them in the distant dell;
But be it hap, or be it harm,
We tread the path-way arm in arm.

IV.

And now, my Lucy, wot'st thou why
I could thy bidding twice deny,
When twice you pray'd I would again
Resume the legendary strain
Of the bold Knight of Triermain?
At length yon peevish vow you swore,
That you would sue to me no more,
Until the minstrel fit drew near,
And made me prize a listening ear.
But, loveliest, when thou first didst pray
Continuance of the knightly lay,
Was it not on the happy day

That made thy hand mine own?
When, dizzied with mine ecstasy,
Nought past, or present, or to be,
Could I or think on, hear, or see,

Save, Lucy, thee alone!

A giddy draught my rapture was,
As ever chemist's magic gas.

In

yon

V.

Again the summons I denied
fair capital of Clyde;
My harp-or let me rather chuse
The good old classic form-my Muse
(For harp's an over-scutched phrase,
Worn out by bards of modern days),
My Muse, then-seldom will she wake
Save by dim wood and silent lake.
She is the wild and rustic maid,
Whose foot unsandall'd loves to tread
Where the soft green-sward is inlaid
With varied moss and thyme;
And, lest the simple lily-braid,
That coronets her temples, fade,
She hides her still in green-wood shade,
To meditate her rhyme.

VI.

And now she comes! The murmur dear
Of the wild brook hath caught her ear,
The glade hath won her eye;
She longs to join with each blithe rill
That dances down the Highland hill,
Her blither melody.

And now, my Lucy's way to cheer,
She bids Ben-Cruach's echoes hear
How closed the tale, my love whilere
Loved for its chivalry.

List how she tells, in notes of flame,

« Child Roland to the dark tower came!»>

CANTO III.

I.

BEWCASTLE NOW must keep the hold, Speir-Adam's steeds must hide in stall, Of Hartley-burn the bowmen bold

Must only shoot from battled wall; And Liddesdale may buckle spur,

And Teviot now may belt the brand, Tarras and Ewes keep nightly stir,

And Eskdale foray Cumberland. Of wasted field and plunder'd flocks

The Borderers bootless may complain; They lack the sword of brave De Vaux, There comes no aid from Triermain. That lord, on high adventure bound,

Hath wander'd forth alone,

And day and night keeps watchful round In the valley of Saint John.

II.

When first began his vigil bold,

The moon twelve summer nights was old,
And shone both fair and full;
High in the vault of cloudless blue,
O'er streamlet, dale, and rock, she threw
Her light composed and cool.

Stretch'd on the brown hill's heathy breast,
Sir Roland eyed the vale;

Chief, where, distinguish'd from the rest,
Those clustering rocks uprear'd their crest,
The dwelling of the fair distress'd,

As told gray Lyulph's tale.
Thus as he lay, the lamp of night
Was quivering on his armour bright,
In beams that rose and fell,
And danced upon his buckler's boss,
That lay beside him on the moss,
As on a crystal well.

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When, gazing on the sinking fire,
Bulwark and battlement and spire
In the red gulf we spy.

For seen, by moon of middle night,
Or by the blaze of noontide bright,
Or by the dawn of morning light,
Or evening's western flame,
In every tide, at every hour,
In mist, in sunshine, and in shower,
The rocks remain'd the same.

IV.

Oft has he traced the charmed mound,
Oft climb'd its crest, or paced it round,
Yet nothing might explore,
Save that the crags so rudely piled,
At distance seen, resemblance wild

To a rough fortress bore.

Yet still his watch the warrior keeps,
Feeds hard and spare, and seldom sleeps,

And drinks but of the well;
Ever by day he walks the hill,
And when the evening gale is chill,

He seeks a rocky cell,

Like hermit poor to bid his bead,
And tell his ave and his creed,
Invoking every saint at need,
For aid to burst the spell.

V.

And now the moon her orb has hid,
And dwindled to a silver thread,

Dim seen in middle heaven,
While o'er its curve carcering fast,
Before the fury of the blast,

The midnight clouds are driven. The brooklet raved, for on the hills The upland showers had swoll'n the rills, And down the torrents came; Mutter'd the distant thunder dread, And frequent o'er the vale was spread A sheet of lightning flame. De Vaux, within his mountain cave (No human step the storm durst brave), To mocdy meditation gave

Each faculty of soul,

Till, lull'd by distant torrent-sound, And the sad wind that whistled round, Upon his thoughts, in musing drown'd, A broken slumber stole.

VI.

'T was then was heard a heavy sound, (Sound strange and fearful there to hear, 'Mongst desert hills, where, leagues around, Dwelt but the gor-cock and the deer:) As starting from his couch of fern, Again he heard, in clangour stern, That deep and solemn swell; Twelve times, in measured tone, it spoke Like some proud minster's pealing clock,

Or city's larum-bell.

What thought was Roland's first when fell, In that deep wilderness, the knell

Upon his startled ear!

To slander warrior were I loth,

Yet must I hold my minstrel troth,

It was a thought of fear.

VII.

But lively was the mingled thrill
That chased that momentary chill;
For love's keen wish was there,
And eager hope, and valour high,
And the proud glow of chivalry,

That burn'd to do and dare.

Forth from the cave the warrior rush'd,
Long ere the mountain-voice was hush'd,
That answer'd to the knell;

For long and far the unwonted sound,
Eddying in echoes round and round,
Was toss'd from fell to fell;
And Glaramara answer flung,
And Grisdale-pike responsive rung,

And Legbert heights their echoes swung,
As far as Derwent's dell.

VIII.

Forth upon trackless darkness gazed
The knight, bedeafen'd and amazed,
Till all was hush'd and still,
Save the swoll'n torrent's sullen roar,
And the night-blast that wildly bore
Its course along the hill.

Then on the northern sky there came
A light, as of reflected flame,

And over Legbert-head,

As if by magic art controll'd,

A mighty meteor slowly roll'd
Its orb of fiery red;

Thou wouldst have thought some demon dire
Came mounted on that car of fire,

To do his errand dread.

Far on the sloping valley's course,
On thicket, rock, and torrent hoarse,
Shingle and scrae, and fell and force,

A dusky light arose:
Display'd, yet alter'd was the scene;
Dark rock, and brook of silver sheen,
Een the gay thicket's summer green,
In bloody tincture glows.

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'T is not deceit; distinctly clear Crenell and parapet appear,

While o'er the pile that meteor drear Makes momentary pause;

Then forth its solemn path it drew, And fainter yet and fainter grew Those gloomy towers upon the view, As its wild light withdraws.

X.

Forth from the cave did Roland rush,

O'er crag and stream, through briar and bush;
Yet far he had not sped,

Ere sunk was that portentous light
Behind the hills, and utter night

Was on the valley spread.

He paused perforce,—and blew his horn;
And on the mountain-echoes borne

Was heard an answering sound,

A wild and lonely trumpet-note,-
In middle air it seem'd to float

High o'er the battled mound;
And sounds were heard, as when a guard
Of some proud castle holding ward,

Pace forth their nightly round.
The valiant Knight of Triermain
Rung forth his challenge-blast again,

But answer came there none;
And 'mid the mingled wind and rain,
Darkling he sought the vale in vain,

Until the dawning shone;

And when it dawn'd, that wond'rous sight,
Distinctly seen by meteor-light,

It all had pass'd away!

And that enchanted mound once more

A pile of granite fragments bore,

As at the close of day.

XI.

Steel'd for the deed, De Vaux's heart Scorn'd from his venturous quest to part,

He walks the vale once more;

But only sees, by night or day,
That shatter'd pile of rocks so gray,

Hears but the torrent's roar.

Till when, through hills of azure borne,
The moon renew'd her silver horn,
Just at the time her waning ray
Had faded in the dawning day,
A summer mist arose;
Adown the vale the vapours float,
And cloudy undulations moat
That tufted mound of mystic note,

As round its base they close.
And higher now the fleecy tide
Ascends its stern and shaggy side,
Until the airy billows hide

The rock's majestic Isle;

It seem'd a veil of filmy lawn,
By some fantastic fairy drawn
Around enchanted pile.

XII.

The breeze came softly down the brook, And, sighing as it blew,

Apertures for shooting arrows.

The veil of silver mist it shook,
And to De Vaux's eager look

Renew'd that wond'rous view.
For, though the loitering vapour braved
The gentle breeze, yet oft it waved

Its mantle's dewy fold;

And, still, when shook that filmy screen, Were towers and bastions dimly seen, And Gothic battlements between

Their gloomy length unroll'd. Speed, speed, De Vaux, ere on thine eye Once more the fleeting vision die!

-The gallant knight can speed
As prompt and light as, when the hound
Is opening, and the horn is wound,

Careers the hunter's steed.
Down the steep dell his course amain

Hath rivall'd archer's shaft;

But ere the mound he could attain,
The rocks their shapeless form regain,
And mocking loud his labour vain,
The mountain spirits laugh'd.
Far

up the echoing dell was borne Their wild unearthly shout of scorn.

XIII.

Wroth wax'd the warrior.-« Am I then
Fool'd by the enemies of men,

Like a poor hind, whose homeward way
Is haunted by malicious fay?

Is Triermain become your taunt,

De Vaux your scorn? False fiends, avaunt!»>
A weighty curtail-axe he bare;

The baleful blade so bright and square,
And the tough shaft of heben wood,
Were oft in Scottish gore embrued.
Backward his stately form he drew,
And at the rocks the weapon threw,
Just where one crag's projected crest
Hung proudly balanced o'er the rest.
Hurl'd with main force, the weapon's shock
Rent a huge fragment of the rock:
If by mere strength 't were hard to tell,
Or if the blow dissolved some spell,
But down the headlong ruin came,
With cloud of dust and flash of flame.
Down bank, o'er bush, its course was borne,
Crush'd lay the copse, the earth was torn,
Till, staid at length, the ruin dread
Cumber'd the torrent's rocky bed,
And bade the waters' high-swoll'n tide
Seek other
passage for its pride.

' XIV.
When ceased that thunder, Triermain
Survey'd the mound's rude front again;
And lo! the ruin had laid bare,
Hewn in the stone a winding stair,

Whose moss'd and fractured steps might lend
The means the summit to ascend;
And by whose aid the brave De Vaux
Began to scale these magic rocks,
And soon a platform won,
Where, the wild witchery to close,
Within three lances' length arose
The Castle of St John!

No misty phantom of the air,
No meteor-blazon'd show was there;
In morning splendour, full and fair,
The massive fortress shone.

XV.

Embattled high and proudly tower'd,
Shaded by pond'rous flankers, lower'd

The portal's gloomy way.

Though for six hundred years and more,
Its strength had brook'd the tempest's roar,
The scutcheon'd emblems that it bore
Had suffer'd no decay;

But from the eastern battlement
A turret had made sheer descent,
And down in recent ruin rent,

In the mid torrent lay.

Else, o'er the castle's brow sublime,
Insults of violence or of time

Unfelt had pass'd away.

In shapeless characters of yore,
The gate this stern inscription bore:

XVI.

INSCRIPTION.

Patience waits the destined day,
Strength can clear the cumber'd way.
Warrior, who hast waited long,
Firm of soul, of sinews strong,
It is given to thee to gaze
On the pile of ancient days.
Never mortal builder's hand
This enduring fabric plann'd;
Sign and sigil, word of power,
From the earth raised keep and tower.
View it o'er, and pace it round,
Rampart, turret, battled mound.
Dare no more! to cross the gate
Were to tamper with thy fate;
Strength and fortitude were vain!
View it o'er-and turn again.»—

XVII.

<< That would I,» said the warrior bold,

<< If that my frame were bent and old, And my thin blood dropp'd slow and cold As icicle in thaw;

But while my heart can feel it dance
Blithe as the sparkling wine of France,
And this good arm wields sword or lance,
I mock these words of awe!»
He said; the wicket felt the sway
Of his strong hand, and straight gave way,
And with rude crash and jarring bray,

The rusty bolts withdraw;
But o'er the threshold as he strode,
And forward took the vaulted road,
An unseen arm with force amain
The ponderous gate flung close again,
And rusted bolt and bar
Spontaneous took their place once more,
While the deep arch with sullen roar

Return'd their surly jar.

a Now closed is the gin, and the prey By the rood of Lanercost!

within.

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